He looks it over carefully as I talk.
It's Swiss. You can probably take his initials off the back if you have access to a small grinder.
Or I can repurpose them with other words. What should I use? You are the wordsmith.
I only know one other name that starts with X.
Which is?
His brother's middle name was Xavier.
I was thinking xenagogue. Do you know what that means, Bridget?
No. I feel helpless and small standing near Skateboard Jesus. I feel transparent.
It's a tour guide, a person who conducts a stranger, as it were.
(Oh, perfect.)
So you bring me an expensive watch, and in exchange I will give you priceless advice. Watch your memory thief.
Why?
Do thieves only take the things you want them to take?
No.
No, of course not. They take the things that are precious to you. Irreplaceable, valuable things. They violate you and leave you with holes that can never be filled. You ask for your lobotomies, your do-overs, but you don't know the price of these things, Bridget. Think hard before you let the thief in amongst the gold.
What if it's too late?
I don't think it is. What if the Devil comes looking for his watch?
He won't. I'm sure he's already bought a new one. How do you know it isn't too late?
The carnival girl is alive and well. Takes the watch off a rich man to give to a poor man. That's exactly something you would do and something a blank slate wouldn't do. And now if you'll excuse me, he checks his watch, I'm late and I gotta go. He jumps on his skateboard and is gone against traffic with a wink, hair flying out over his shoulders, worn backpack snug against his shoulders. I try to follow his progress but I've already lost him in the crush of trucks and lights.
